The last Monday of the month of January is considered to be "National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day!" What a rejoicing day for this abnormal crazy - who will celebrate the strangest things in life! "The primary purpose of bubble wrap is to protect fragile items either in shipping or storage. People also get enjoyment from popping the bubbles in bubble wrap..", says the article. No duh. The popping of the bubbles is more than enjoyment, it's pure ecstasy as far as I'm concerned. Our UPS Store here in town has a huge roll of that "plastic sealed air" out in the open. It must be three feet tall and three feet wide. I really do have to restrain myself from attacking it.

Today, I finished packing away some lingering fragile Christmas dishes (don't judge, I know it's Jan. 28th), and of course I wrapped them in bubble wrap. I was honoring the day without knowing it! I had to step on a few sheets, just to hear that "pop, snap - crack", and now I feel so relaxed and stress-free. LOL.

So, truthfully, bubble wrap is both functional and "fun" at the same time. Right? Right. It really does describe me when it comes to what I do for a living. It's pretty cool that "fun" is in the word functional too. It's almost like it's a license for me to be fully sanctioned, official, useful and practical, but also having a merry-making, entertaining time.

In The Humor of Christ, Elton Trueblood argued, "There are numerous passages (in scripture) . . . which are practically incomprehensible when regarded as sober prose, but which are luminous once we become liberated from the gratuitous assumption that Christ never joked. . . . Once we realize that Christ was not always engaged in pious talk, we have made an enormous step on the road to understanding." I am serious....serious about conveying to all, that living for Jesus is serious business; to be His eternal image-bearer. I love the humorous, satirical sting when Jesus said “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within are full of dead people’s bones and all uncleanness..” (Matthew 23:27) The Pharisees and scribes needed some serious bubble wrap therapy, I'm thinking. Their neatly packaged rules and rituals needed releasing.

And how about this for some Jesus-comedic-relief - He told the religious leaders they were completely blind by missing the whole point of being a God-follower: “You blind guides, straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel!” (Matthew 23:24). Now that's funny. Straining out a gnat would have been hard work for anyone—but impossible for the blind. And what could be more ridiculous than swallowing a camel? Hilarious. This strange and pithy statement undoubtedly caused laughter to erupt, and possibly even a smirk by the Son of God.

Jesus put the "fun" in functional in those instances, delivering truth while tuning them up. So, I'll wrap this up by saying, "For those of us who are full of hot air, step and pounce on all those air bubbles and release the tension, the tautness and pressure - and dance on, my friend! Set yourself free from religious bondage - it's National Bubble Wrap Day!" (and that's a wrap..)

#AugustDevotion 🏖 My thoughts always turn to how the sun, sea, sand and warm temperatures (to me) are pure reflections of God and His inner workings within me. Approaching my 63rd birthday soon, and I don’t quite know how that all happened. In my heart and brain, I’m still that awkward lanky-frolicking master pinball player, stubbing my toes on uneven boards of the boardwalk. I can still hear and feel the ocean and salt in my ears. I am grateful for God’s protection over the decades, (like an SPF of 1 million) but I’m even more grateful and humbled that God gave me some pretty special kids. They’re adulting now, and I live vicariously through them, but who would know — that the sand never really leaves your toes?! Their kid-voices still resonate in your head! Thank you Lord, for not withholding any good thing from me. And when the tumultuous waves of aging hit the shore and I must run to keep from being knocked to the sand, thank you again, Lord, for your promise of being my eternal shield and shade. #instaphoto #instadevo #beachlife #beachumbrella #adulting #thefutureisnow My photo: #SeaIsleCityBeach 7/2016

The man holding my hand on the left is my Pop Pop Link. He was born on January 29th, 1904. We are walking 7th Street in Salem, New Jersey around 1957. My Pop Pop holding my hand was my favorite. Later, as he grew older, he was stricken with dementia, and it was my turn to hold his hand. Last week, while parking my car at #Costco, I noticed an elderly man crying and stumbling while walking, trying to navigate cars in the parking lot. He caught my eye. I followed him for a few minutes, then stopped my car and approached him. “Hi sir. Are you lost?” (with broken English he says — “I’m lost. I can’t find my wife.”) So I say very calmly, “It’s okay. We’ll find her.” I reached out my hand and for the next forty minutes we searched for her - inside Costco, all around the cars, and in and out of the building. We finally just sat and talked. He told me about his daughters, his Romanian descent and his love of Cadillacs. “Oh, I love Cadillacs too. Do you have a Cadillac?” (His eyes lit up like stars! He then shouted, “I remember! I have a blue Cadillac!” So I stood up from the bench and said, “Alexandru?? (I think that’s his name) Let’s go look for your car.” We started to walk, and THIS time - he grabbed MY hand and said, “I see it! I see it!” And sure enough, at the exact time we got to his navy blue Cadillac, his wife arrived with her cart. I hugged Alexandru, told his wife what had happened (she said she ordered him to stay in the car while she shopped—not a good thing). So then I merrily skipped off to go buy a moose-sized bottle of Fish Oil. After all, that’s the whole reason you go to Costco, right? Yep. To buy quantity discounts of all good things, but some things you really don’t need.....but then, just maybe even help a new friend — but holding hands is a must. My take is:1️⃣ Be aware.2️⃣ Be willing to help, and ask calming questions.3️⃣ Call local authorities and First Responders if you see someone who is lost.4️⃣ Take the time to see through and problem-solve.5️⃣ Smile and walk away feeling good about yourself, when you take the time to help. ❤️ “I miss you, Pop Pop, but I saw you today in Alexandru. We held hands.” #eldercare #dementia #dementiaawareness #seniorcare #alzheimers

Remember the days in many U.S. churches where this was how the week’s Sunday #worshipset list was announced? Yeah. Those days... No glitzy social media promotion announcing the “set list”. No drama or worship war with the band on stage. We actually held a Hymn book. Congregants sang, and actually heard themselves sing. Sundays felt more like community than a Broadway show. And you never heard people say (to the pastor, as they exited) “Wow. That worship team ‘killed’ it today.”

Now, before you get your pants twisted in a knot and think I’ve fallen off an archaic cliff, I’m VERY excited when MUSIC is part of #contemporaryworship. The key word there is #music. Remember: WE (the #boomers) were the first to introduce the “new” worship band form back in the early 70s. So, I’m #allin with real music that edifies, encourages, and is both vertical & horizontal in form. But something burns deep within me shouting, “I’m less interested in your form, or supposed finesse, or intense #worshipband rehearsals (where, God forbid, there would be a move of God —changing the set list in the actual “performance”, as some say). I travel to over 150 churches a year or more, with a vast differential of traditions, culture, style, mood, mission—with mega-music done well, to minimal music emphasis done marginally, to some with very limited musicianship.

But all of us —in the seats or pews —are crying out for the same thing: Let everybody sing! Let the walls be filled with voices! Let’s be less impressed with style, and hunger more for Holy Spirit-filled anointing in our music. While in Haiti, watching young orphans sing till they were exhausted and out of breath with euphoria, reminds me again, “This has nothing to do with state of the art sound systems, theatrical PowerPoint or commercialized songs that are limited. This is God's child, using her very first instrument to praise her God. Her. Voice. “Sing praises to God, sing praises; sing praises to our King, sing praises!”

Thanks to TEVA® for making such a durable and long-lasting sandal. I've been able to trek in these things for over nine thousand miles, I figure. My calculations are correct since they've scaled mountains, rail trails, hiking paths, state parks, rainy streets, as well as muddy roads in Bermuda, Mexico, Grand Cayman, Jamaica, Philippines, Haiti and Malaysia, and even New Jersey! They are at least twelve years old and are simply my go-to foot-gear for everything rocky, messy, difficult and disgusting.

On missions trips they survive trudging through a human waste terrain of filth I can't even describe or care to. I feel sorry for them, actually, as I hose them down before packing them in a zip-lock bag for the plane ride home. I don't normally talk to shoes but I do recall saying out loud, "You got me through another difficult road, Tevas.. I apologize for what you had to endure."

Once while camping, I left them outside the tent and some crazed critter dragged one of the sandals to a wooded area. I was determined to find that right Teva, and hopping hilariously on my left Teva, I did! There are teeth marks permanently imbedded in the front of the sandal to remind me of that weird episode. They also survived icky algae and water-logged leaves that find their way every year at the bottom of my pool. Slimy things have never been a favorite to feel, so wearing them as I submerge gives me the comfort and security I need. It never occurs to me that slime and creepy things could gather on TOP of my feet -- hey, as long as the bottom of my tootsies are safe, I'm good.

To say that I've got my money's worth out of these is an understatement. The irony is when I opened the box twelve years ago or so, I noticed that there were two left shoes. Bummer. And since they were a gift, I didn't have the receipt. So I contacted Teva and they sent me a brand new pair. A right one and a left one. Matching. New. Pretty. Nice.

But now they are severely worn, with faded straps and fuzz in the velcro. I can't part with them. Ever. Too many memories; too many faithful miles of protection while sharing the gospel on missions trips. I glued the bottom with super glue to prevent the spongy plastic from coming apart. They're good for another nine thousand miles, I think, if my feet can keep up with them.

When you simply can't part with something because it just has too many memory-bank moments, take notice. There's something sacred about rugged worn-out shoes anyway. And if they could talk, mine would probably say, "Whew. If we had any idea where you were gonna take us, we would have stayed in that box, hoping someone with a less aggressive life-style would buy us. But since we ventured with you and you keep entrusting us with the power to protect you, we're all in. Your sole's prepared."

Ephesians 6:15 "For shoes, put on the peace that comes from the Good News so that you will be fully prepared." (NLT)

“One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish…”. Or in my current sphere, “One fish, two fish, Sue ate, bad fish!” Yikes and yes. I ate bad fish last month on the road somewhere. Now I’m blue, or at least I was. Somewhere in the process of the quest for good seafood, I hooked an uninvited parasitic microsporidia. Sounds worse than what it is, but still, it’s knocked me for a loop. “Green eggs and ham woulda been better, Sam-I-Am.” And my liver would have stood up and applauded.

Seuss-isms aside, I am grateful for every healthy ingested morsel of food, but, as I was told (progressing countries aside) not all prepared food in U.S. restaurants are “clean”… Hmmm. Ya think? Shoot. I dined in Haiti many times, plus Philippines and other foreign countries, but never came home this sick. Thankfully a dear friend suggested I see her daughter who is a homeopathic guru. She has me on a biological warfare regimen of natural remedies. As with everything I do and everything I am, I seem to always do it royally but always portray the humor in it all. And maybe that’s part of the healing process too. So, don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not “floundering." I'm actually laughing.

I went to the Container Store in Nashville to buy a soft-pack mini-duffle to keep all this homeopathic chemistry set in one location. I also have charts and graphs to keep me on schedule. One of the surprises to all this is how disciplined I CAN be when I want to be. Hmmm. Amazing. Treating the cause and not just the symptom takes longer. Much longer. One friend suggested I should check myself into a clinic and have them just flush out my system over a period of five days, with (get this) …salt water. Then I’d for sure grow gills. Instead, I’ll be the best home patient, pretend I’m feeling okay with a stiff upper lip and just take lots of naps. Bland food has been my best friend too these days. “Stay away from spicy and rich foods, Sue.” Yup. Doin’ that. “Did you eat sushi? Is that how you got this “thing, Sue?” Nope. I stay far away from raw fish. Trying to pinpoint the exact culprit has been a task. “Was it the shrimp? The grouper? The oysters? The Maryland Crab? (Oh, God no - not the Maryland Crab!! Surely it wasn’t THAT… Maryland crab is the heavenly nectar of ocean/bay sustenance of life!)

In the mean time, I just pray health over my pancreas and adrenals, that they just totally ignore that irritating parasite and just go about doing their job. Parasites in fish are a common natural occurrence, I’m told. Especially farm-raised fish, which is why I stay away from Tilapia. I seriously ask before ordering, “Is it wild-caught?” I’m waiting for the next smart aleck waitress to tell me, “Yes ma’am, we “wildly” caught it at the farm.” And as it turns out - I literally “bought the farm” in my love for fish and paid a huge consequence for it.

“So, Sue, will you still eat fish once you’re over this thing?” Good question. I actually ate some shrimp last night… and so far, I’m doing okay. I’ll continue to stay far away from farm-raised and stick to wild-caught. And since my mental state needs adjustment too, I find great therapy in name-calling this parasite.

The stiffness in my back and over-all body ache isn't fun. I've been on this decrepit bed trip way too long this week. I'm developing this weird kind of ceiling-stare that's quite mesmerizing. I'm counting how many rotations the ceiling fan makes in thirty seconds. There's also a one-second delay of sound broadcast between the television downstairs and the one in my room upstairs.. Both TV's are on AntennaTV® (yeah, we got rid of cable) and are tuned into "The Patty Duke Show". Both TV's are out of audio/video sync with each other and they do this funky echo throughout the house as if Patty and Cousin Cathy are on an excursion inside the Luray Caverns....with ceiling fans. Jeff says when I'm delirious with fever-speak, I converse with my mother and Annie. I also have an incoherent dialogue with a supposed hospital nurse. I carry a complete conversation with someone else for an hour but I have no clue who it is. I ask the nurse for a styrofoam cup with ice chips. "That's what my mother always asks for," I say out loud. Jeff graciously sits next to the bed in a rocking chair. I don't know how, but he contains his rolling laughter like a champ. Finally my fever breaks a little and I'm back to normal, whatever that is. And thus begins the recap of the night. This amusement park of up and down common flu vs. stomach flu symptoms, with Patty Duke and the ceiling fan, has been the norm for me since last Saturday. Let's just list them all, for giggles and guffaws. A dot signifies the ones visiting me this week. The ones without the dot, thank you Jesus, decide to take their visitation elsewhere.

"Did you get a flu shot, Sue?" I've been asked this about fifty times. No, for some reason, I decided to take on the new and improved pneumonia shot this year instead. "Well, no wonder," my friend says. "This strand is awful. Schools are shutting down. Influenza cases like this always happen when there's not enough of frigid cold to kill it all off." So I've heard. My grandmother used to say that all the time. Cold winter kills the flu. Warm winters make everybody sick. So instead we're gifted with a few nice days of 70º and I daringly frolic through the park mid-flu-week and walk about fifty feet, then collapse on the bench. I call Jeff to come pick me up in the car. And just when I think I feel better and attempt to do some normal stuff, I inevitably end up plopping down on the bed, counting the rotations of the ceiling fan again. This time I count in Spanish. "Uno, dos, trés..." One of the things I preach the most is: "God often uses life's stops... to keep us going." I know my schedule is crazy; I know I push my body sometimes to the limit. But I'm also amazed how God allows the stoppages to refuel me for future and profitable use down the road. Psalm 119:133 says, "Keep steady my steps according to your promise, and let no iniquity get dominion over me." And then there's this from Proverbs 16:9 - "We can make our plans, but the LORD determines our steps." Two weeks off to enjoy being home; to reacquaint myself with cleaning, cooking, resting and preparing. But instead I become best friends with Patty Duke "Lane" and her cousin Cathy. One luxury of being still (besides indulging in retro television) is having time to pray. Praying urgently and intentionally for friends who are reaching out to me right now is an extraordinary gift. No distractions. No control over what I can or can't do - just sincere, focused prayer - for others, on my iPad and computer. This has been the best Rx I could ask for. For those who know me and follow my words, you know. Praying for others will bring healing to your own soul and your own body. I've seen it time and time again. So I laugh to myself when I think that maybe time off or "time-out" like this would be great to freshen up on my conversational Español. A great idea to help kill the time as I get over this flu. And as soon as I think that, I hear Patty Lane say to cousin Cathy, "You speak Latin? The only latin I know is Paul Anka!" Bless you, my twin-cousin-friend, if you too have had a tough go of it this winter. Remember: "Let no iniquity have dominion over you." And count your blessings while your ceiling fan rotates. You're one step closer to getting better. Let's sing together: "They laugh alike, they walk alike, At times they even talk alike - You can lose your mind..."

Summer. Who’s holding on for dear life like I am?? I do this every year, actually. I anticipate and dream of the crisp fall nights, but I also can’t let go of the hot sun, my rare poolside sitting and… watermelon.

Watermelon. Candy fruit. That’s what it really is. Mark Twain was quoted, “To taste a watermelon is to know what the angels eat.” I wholeheartedly agree.

Now, conversely, to eat a bad watermelon, is to know what the devil eats. Seriously, I’ve been known to spit out a mutilated slice of hopeful delicious delight, if my mouth is offended in any way. I gag and heave, making weird sounds. There’s nothing worse than a bad watermelon. And you can’t always tell, just by the visual. Some of the most red-acious ones may not always be the sweetest. That’s the irony.

There’s a thousands-year-old breeding history of how we’ve arrived to this red-on-the-inside-green-on-the-outside delectable delight. There’s also completely boring rhetoric that I won’t waste your time reading, but it took many years for the watermelon to take on its familiar red hue. That’s because the gene for the color red is paired with the gene that determines the sugar content. As watermelons were bred to become even sweeter (because that’s what we really want), their interior gradually changed color…and taste. Red = Sweet. Hmmm.

Finally, a fruit fit for the angels! It took several thousand years to get to this specifically glorious hybrid. Today, 100 million tons of watermelon are grown annually worldwide. All shapes, sizes, colors and, uh, tastes.

I am a watermelon snob. Like I said, I won’t waste my time or my taste buds on a bad one. But if I find one that is perfect, I’ve been known to eat the whole melon in one sitting! (Although now, I prefer the pre-packaged kind that’s already been sliced and diced into handy little finger-food containers.) Yes, I’ve even become that lazy….”Please, someone - please cut it for me!”

I also hear the proclamation of scripture here from Psalm 119:103, “How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!” Our words are known to be both sweet and sour at times. That’s just the reality. But the red hue of my Savior’s blood is useful for the repentance of sin and degrading speech. “His blood will make our consciences pure from useless acts so we may serve the living God” (Hebrews 9:14 NCV)

Nor more useless acts. No more wasting time ruminating over the ‘bad watermelon’ of life. Move on. Serve the Living God who delights in us, by giving us His son Jesus as a sacrifice. Because the blood of Christ has redeemed us, we are now new creations in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17), and by His blood we are freed from sin to serve the living God, to glorify Him, and to enjoy His sweet presence forever.

How sweet is that? And maybe to adjust Mark Twain a little bit here, I think it’s best said, “To know Jesus and His sacrifice on the cross is to know what the angels know.” And that’s pretty sweet. Red = Sweet. Amen.

I’ve always loved being called a daughter. And even though my parents are gone, I still am known to refer to myself as Al and Naomi Beatty’s daughter. It’s a statement of honor, remembrance, and high esteem. In while I love being called wife, mother, sister, friend (and sometimes goofball!), I’m overwhelmingly fond of the royal name-call of daughter. In the Gospel of Matthew, the King coming on the foal of a donkey was an exact fulfillment of Zechariah 9:9, “Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” A daughter-land awaiting her King. Despite the constant rebellion of the daughter of Zion (Israel) against her Father, He promises to restore her and present her with a Deliverer-King in the form of Jesus. “Daughter” implies that God is a loving father. He loves His people, even when they reject Him. By using the metaphor “daughter of Zion,” God shows how He felt for the rebellious Israelites: frustrated, angry, but always with a hopeful eye to the future when the relationship would be restored. He could once again return to them and welcome them into His arms (Zechariah 2:10). On this Palm Sunday of my sixtieth year, this daughter, too, awaits her King. And even when she has gravely disappointed Him, hurt Him or hurt others with a spiritual veneer of positioning or prideful justification, He returns to her again and again. I welcome you, Jesus. This daughter jumps for joy with grateful anticipation of your arrival. “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord – the King of Israel!”